CHAPTER 4

Elara POV

Until one rainy afternoon, everything changed.

I sat in a corner café, sketching by the rain-streaked window. My coffee had long gone cold, but I cradled it anyway. My glasses slipped down my nose as I scribbled over a design draft.

And then I felt it.

The air shifted.

The door opened, and he walked in.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp black suit tailored to perfection. His stride deliberate, confident, like he owned every inch of space he stepped into. Conversations faltered, people instinctively shifted aside.

His presence was a storm in human form.

The barista stammered, nearly spilling his coffee as he murmured a single low word, “Thanks.”

And then his eyes swept the café.

Until they found me.

For the briefest moment, the world stopped. His gaze pierced through me, stripped me bare. My heart tripped over itself, my fingers curling around my pen like it was the only anchor left.

I couldn’t look away.

My lips parted, and before I could stop myself, I whispered, “Don’t stare, Elara. Don’t—”

Then, just as suddenly, his gaze slid off me. He turned, walked out into the rain, and vanished into the blur of umbrellas and headlights.

But something in me… shifted.

I whispered to myself, almost afraid of the words. “Who… was that?”

I didn’t know then. 

I didn’t know that was Adrian Velasco.

And he was about to shatter the fragile little world I had fought so hard to rebuild.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

For nights after, his face haunted me—not because I wanted it to, but because something about his presence had branded itself into my mind. The way the air had stilled when he looked at me. The way I felt stripped raw, like he could see every secret I tried so hard to bury.

I told myself it was nothing. Just a stranger, a fleeting moment. Manila was full of them. And yet every time I sat at my desk, sketching under the glow of my cheap lamp, I found my pencil sketching sharp suits, storm-dark eyes, the ghost of a smirk I had only imagined.

Weeks passed. Work picked up slowly—small projects, cafés, apartments. Enough to survive, never enough to breathe easy. Then came an announcement, a tender that made my heart race.

Velasco Corp

Was accepting proposals for a luxury development. He was Adrian Velasco. The CEO. The man I was about to pitch my design proposal to.

Of course. The universe loved its cruel jokes.

“Ms. Elara Santos?” a woman in a sharp black skirt suit approached, her smile polite but efficient. “Mr. Velasco is waiting for you in the boardroom.”

My palms were damp, but I nodded, forcing my voice steady. “Thank you.”

The boardroom was glass and steel, sleek lines and sharp edges. And at the far end of the table, he sat. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie, his jacket discarded on the chair. He leaned back with the kind of ease only power could afford.

Those eyes. The same ones that had cut through me at the café. Cold, assessing. And now they were on me.

“Ms. Santos,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a command that filled the room without effort. “You’re late.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. I wasn’t. “I’m exactly on time.”

His lips curved—not quite a smile, more like a dare. “Then you should know. For me, on time is late.”

My spine stiffened, heat crawling up my neck. “I’ll keep that in mind. Shall I begin?”

“Please.” He gestured to the screen behind me, uninterested, almost bored.

I breathed in deep and launched into my pitch. The design was clean, functional, yet warm—my signature touch. Every detail, from the textures to the lighting, had been chosen with care. My words gained strength as I spoke, passion carrying me forward.

And then, halfway through, he interrupted.

“Too safe.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes sharp. “It’s good, Ms. Santos. Safe. Marketable. But it doesn’t move me. And if it doesn’t move me, it won’t move anyone else.”

I gritted my teeth, pulse pounding. “With respect, Mr. Velasco, design isn’t about moving you. It’s about creating spaces where people feel they belong.”

Something flickered in his gaze—challenge, interest, I couldn’t tell. “And you think you know what people need?”

“I don’t think,” I shot back. “I listen. To the client. To the space itself. That’s what makes it real. Not… theatrics.”

The room went silent. My heart hammered, my breath uneven. I had just snapped at one of the most powerful men in Manila.

But instead of anger, something dangerous curved his lips. “Interesting.”

His eyes dragged over me slowly, not in a way that was unprofessional, but in a way that made my skin burn anyway. “You’ve got fire, Ms. Santos. Most people bend by now.”

I lifted my chin. “I don’t bend.”

For a long moment, we just stared at each other. The air between us was charged, heavy, alive.

And then he looked away, flipping my portfolio shut with a single motion. “We’ll see if you break.”

My breath caught, sharp and shallow. The words shouldn’t have sounded like a promise. But they did.

Something in me bristled. “I don’t intend to break, Mr. Velasco. That’s not who I am.”

One of his brows lifted ever so slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, I’ve seen people stronger than you bend until they snapped.”

I tightened my grip on my pen, the urge to jab it into the polished mahogany table almost overwhelming. “Maybe they snapped because they cared about pleasing you too much.”

He chuckled low, the sound both frustrating and… unsettlingly warm. “You don’t care about pleasing me?”

I hesitated, pulse hammering in my ears, then forced the words out. “No. I care about doing my work. If that happens to please you, fine. If not—then maybe you’re not my client.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His gaze swept over me again, slow, deliberate, as though weighing every piece of me—the defiance in my voice, the set of my shoulders, the trembling in my hands I prayed he didn’t notice.

At last, he leaned back in his chair, his tone softer but laced with something sharper beneath. “Careful, Ms. Santos. That kind of honesty is either admirable… or dangerous.”

I exhaled slowly, refusing to flinch. “I’ll take dangerous over fake any day.”

For the first time, his eyes lit with something I couldn’t quite read. Not amusement, not arrogance—something heavier. Something that made my throat tighten and my stomach flip.

He tapped a finger against my portfolio, then looked at me again. “You’re stubborn.”

“I prefer determined,” I countered.

His lips curved into the faintest smile, dark and unreadable. “Stubborn. Determined. Fiery.” He let the words hang, his gaze never leaving mine. “The question is… can you survive working with me?”

I swallowed, forcing my voice steady. “That depends. Can you survive working with me?”

That made him laugh—quiet, rough, a sound that vibrated through the air and sent an uninvited shiver down my spine.

The door opened then, a secretary peeking in nervously. “Sir, your two o’clock is waiting—”

“Tell them to wait,” Adrian said smoothly, eyes still fixed on me.

The secretary nodded quickly and disappeared, leaving us alone in the thick, charged silence.

I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how small the room felt, how close his presence pressed against me even from across the table. My breath came uneven, but I masked it with another steady lift of my chin.

“Are we finished here?” I asked.

His smile was slow, deliberate, like he already knew the answer. “Not even close.”